Complete
by Riley72
Summary: The Sword does not care who it cuts. The Sword does not feel saddness, regret or love. But the Swordsman does. The Sword relies on the hand to guide it's path the Swordsman relies on the blade to kill. Together, Lethal. But the Sword does not care. 1shot


**A/N** don't own the turtles...

OK, so... I kind of have no idea where this came from, and if my previous stuff has been good, then this is OK at a stretch, it's kinda haphazard and difficult to understand- but I'm kinda hopin' it's just me being too critical. hehehe. So, please R&R!

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**Complete**

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_Is it the blade that makes the sword- or the hand that holds the hilt? Blade, Hilt, Sheath, Hand, Master- Complete, Deadly, Lethal. When hand holds hilt- they are complete._

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Blades- metal- singing through the air- carving it's way through, smooth- one with it's master, one with the rain- the city lights- lethal.

In those moments of battle- silence would descend over him, as if time had stopped- and for those moments, he could do anything, the ninjato's cut through the air, gravity- opening a path through for him- together, they were complete, honed- deadly.

Blood dropped from the edge of the blades, and nothing had ever been more alive.

The Swordsman stood still- so still, he could have been carved of stone, or- carefully honed and sharpened, as unmoving and as cold as the metal in his hands. His were closed- but confidence and control still rang from him, arguing with common sense that, despite his eyes being closed- he could still _see_. His head was tilted slightly to the side, face almost upturned to the sky- as if he was gazing at a star-filled sky.

The Swordsman breathed deep- chest moving, feeling the blood pounding in his body, feeling the movement of air about his skin, reaching out- sensing with mind and soul-

A fine tremor shook his right hand, light refracted from the sheer, polished blade, flashing red at the end- covered in a fine layer of blood. The occasional tremor was the only betrayal to his current exhaustion, the occasional drip of blood from his arm or leg was the only betrayal to his wounds. But his exhaustion did not matter, not now, all that mattered was the hilts in his hands, the calmness inside him, like he had _become_ the cold metal.

He felt it then- like a ripple- just a ripple, on a still pond- alerting him to the presence of his enemy.

Another deep breath- another beat of his heart- another ripple-

_Death_

A footstep- a breath- all ripples- all warning him of the oncoming attack.

_Bloodlust_

He waited still, chest and right arm the only thing that moved about him.

_A Sword does not care who it cuts_

The brush of air against his skin-

_Where is the Soul?_

another ripple- now constant... A heart beat-

He lowered his head, waiting- waiting- until he felt the beating heart synch up with his own-

Then, his eyes opened- blades flashing-

He did not hear the words spoken, for words do not matter to blades. He did not feel the wind on his skin, for the brush of cold air is unfelt by metal. He did not feel the pain of his wounds, for Wounds and Pains... mean nothing to Weapons. He did not remember his family, his brothers, his Sensei, for memory... for Love, is not understood by Weapons.

They were nearly one, blade, and wielder. Nearly complete. It mattered not who made the kill, mattered not who made it possible for them to win. Whether it was he who made the kill by cutting through the defenses, by swinging blade down. Or whether it was the blade who made the kill by merely allowing the wielder to swing it through the air, it's metal carving flesh and air with equal ease.

It mattered not, because Sword without Swordsman was useless, just a sharp pointy metal. Swordsman without Sword was just a man.

But together, combined- complete, they became deadly, lethal, beyond dangerous. Beyond a sword, beyond a man.

Little stood between them, little was different between them.

Though the Sword did not care who it cut, the Master did. The Master was prone to a mercy the Sword could not understand, the Master was prone to staying his hand, to running from battle, while the Sword still ached to cut, to spill more blood.

The Sword would take any man as Master. The Swordsman would only allow himself to ever call one man Master.

One day, the Swordsman would put down his swords, would finally step away from battle, from fight, from the bloodlust. Or the Swordsman would die.

But the Sword... the Sword would never loose the ache to fight, the ache to taste blood.

In this, they were different. The Swordsman fought to protect, to save those he loved. The Sword... cut to quench it's bloodlust.

The Swordsman would never betray.

The Sword could not, for it knew not of loyalty, or love, or mercy, or kindness. All the Sword knew was bloodlust, the smooth way it cut through body and air, cutting life from those who would kill until their heart stopped beating. And, though the Swordsman knew these things, almost as well as the Sword itself, the Sword knew one thing- one thing that the Swordsman did not.

It was only a matter of time, until the Swordsman gave to the bloodlust, gave to the thrill of the hunt, the kill.

Only then, could they be complete. Only then, could they be one. And then- the Swordsman would not care who he cut.

And the Sword would be the Master.

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Complete_.

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**A/N** so, I hope that was OK, and if ya have any suggestions, it'd be great! thanks. 


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